


The Same Mistake Twice

by Sohotthateveryonedied



Series: Joker Junior [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Brainwashing, Gen, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Insanity, Jason Todd is a good brother, Joker Junior - Freeform, Mental Instability, Movie: Batman Beyond: Return of the Joker, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Tim Drake Has Issues, Tim Drake Has Mental Health Issues, Tim Drake is Joker Jr.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-08 02:47:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21468796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sohotthateveryonedied/pseuds/Sohotthateveryonedied
Summary: Jason wheels on Bruce again, gun raised and eyes flaming. “You’d better have fucking killed him this time, or I swear togod—”“I didn’t.” And Jason is legitimately planning to pull the trigger until: “Tim did.”Jason pauses. Another breathless cackle rings through the cave, making them all wince. “What.The fuck.Happened.”
Relationships: Tim Drake & Jason Todd
Series: Joker Junior [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1547449
Comments: 42
Kudos: 980





	The Same Mistake Twice

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time nine and a half days ago, I was *rupaul voice* conversating with my good friend Julie, who is both a witch and a genius. She looked me dead in the eyes through iMessage and said in her best Yoda voice, "Go, Destiny. Travel to the forbidden realms and write a fic about Jason and Tim bonding over being royally fucked up by Joker. You are the only one worthy of this task, and should you not write it may you and your entire family burst into flames." Then she swooshed away, into the unknown. 
> 
> Now, I considered the dangers of my new mission. Because of course it should be in my and my family's best interests to _not_ burst into flames, for I have homework assignments to hand in and I can't do that if I am a crispy chicken nugget that fell off the tray and stayed at the bottom of the oven for several years. However, was I truly worthy of this challenge? Did I indeed have the writing capabilities to tackle such a wonderfully angsty concept? Does the world really _need_ this oh so rare and zesty storyline?
> 
> Anyways the answer was yes because I'm fucking _cool_ and also I had nothing better to do. 
> 
> Have fun reading this bad boy! Author gal OUT. *melts like that kid from Sky High and travels down a shower drain, off to my next adventure*

_ “A bird in the hand…” _

Tim (JJ?) _ Tim _ was there that night. At the circus.  
  
His mother sat on one side of him, his father on the other.  
  
The Flying Graysons climbed the ladder.

They swung from the trapeze, graceful and majestic like birds taking flight.

But then something went wrong, and they went down, down, down, down.  
  
Tim...laughed? 

_ Wrong. _

Tim_ cried. _  
  
Dick Grayson. He cried too.

He collapsed beside the corpses of his dead parents and cried and laughed and then he shot Joker in the chest—

No.  
  
That’s not right. 

JJ (Tim?) _ JJ. _ He was there that night.  
  
Harley sat on one side of him, Joker on the other.

Or...did they?

Jack Drake— (No, _ Joker _ ). Harley— (Mom?) But wasn’t it supposed to be Janet? Who is that?  
  
The Graysons flew.  
  
The Graysons fell.

_ Bang. _

The gunshot rang.  
  
The bodies hit the ground.

Tim laughed.

Grayson—_ Dick _—he cried.

The Joker laughed. 

_ “A bird in the hand gets crushed.” _

* * *

Jason doesn’t even bother with the kickstand on his motorcycle, letting it tip and crash to the floor as he stomps toward Bruce (still wearing that fucking cape and cowl) with his favorite gun in hand. “What the _ fuck, _ Bruce?”  
  
Bruce raises his hands, cautious. There is dried blood streaked down his mouth. “Jason—”  
  
“You couldn’t have bothered to give me a fucking _ phone call?” _  
  
Because the replacement has been missing for _ three weeks. _ That’s three weeks of searching. Three weeks of not knowing whether he was dead or alive. Three weeks of wondering who’s got him and what they could be doing to him right this very second.  
  
Jason has been conducting his own searches in Gotham’s grittier haunts, snapping finger joints and drawing blood for any information as to where the wayward Red Robin was taken. The only reason Jason’s even here right now is because he called after patrol for a check-in, and Damian was the one who answered.  
  
“Demon brat?” he said. “Where the fuck is Alfred?”  
  
“Drake is back.” And then promptly hung up on him.  
  
So now Jason is _ pissed, _ and rightfully so. Lazarus water surges through his veins tenfold, turning his anger into a living, breathing creature.  
  
“We’re dealing with a lot right now,” Bruce says, an attempt to ease the rage bubbling in the air.  
  
“I don’t _ care,” _ Jason snarls. “The kid suddenly turns up after weeks AWOL, and you don’t think I need to _ know _ that shit?”  
  
“I was going to call you once we knew what we were dealing with.” Every voice in Jason’s head whispers at him to pull the trigger. Splatter the asshole’s brains all over the goddamn ceiling. Take the temporary salve for what it is.  
  
Instead, Jason forces through clenched teeth, “What does that mean?”  
  
Bruce’s mouth sets in a line. He pulls down the cowl, exposing his face, and suddenly Jason _ knows. _ It’s in the despairing wells deep within each iris; in the exhausted circles beneath, like all of the joy in the world has been sucked out of Bruce’s world through a curly straw. A clear tell that Jason doesn’t want to hear the answer.  
  
But he needs to. His hand shakes, so he adjusts his grip on the gun. “How bad is it?”  
  
Bruce opens his mouth, but suddenly the Joker’s laughter echoes through the cave and cuts him off, and Jason nearly fires right then and there. The awful cackles send static shocks tingling down Jason’s spine as memories of That Night flood his mind.

_ "This is going to hurt you a lot more than it does me.” _

Except this voice is...different, and it’s to this Jason owes the miracle of not instantly falling into a panic attack. It lacks the menacing tone of the very psychotic laugh Jason’s heard over and over in his head ever since...the pit? The explosion? The crowbar?  
  
No. Since the moment his mother turned on him in that Ethiopian warehouse. Jason’s heard that laughter every waking moment of his second life. Even when he’s sleeping it haunts his dreams.

_ Nightmares. _

The pitch is off. Rather than evil and sadistic, this laughter reminds him of Joker gas victims; desperate and terrified, choking on laughter they can’t control. It’s laughing and screaming and crying all at once—a grotesque medley.  
  
Jason shoves past Bruce, heading toward the source at the medical bay across the cave. The second his gaze lands on the cot ten feet away, Jason freezes. “Holy fucking _shit,” _he breathes.  
  
The kid is nearly unrecognizable. His skin is white as a sheet and a sloppy green dye job hangs in front of his wild, piercing eyes. He’s grinning too broadly, like he honest to god can’t help it, and he doesn’t seem to even notice Jason’s here.  
  
The grin pulls at the thick lines carved into his cheeks—already scarred over so there’s nothing to be done now without a plastic surgeon. A painful-looking J has been branded into the side of Tim’s neck.  
  
Dick stands over him, petting back his hair and trying to get through to him. “It’s okay, Tim. Come on, buddy, you know me. It’s Dick.” But his words are lost in the cacophony of breathless laughter. Tears streak down Tim’s face, offsetting the horrors that have been inflicted on him.  
  
Jason wheels on Bruce again, gun raised and eyes flaming. “You’d better have fucking killed him this time, or I swear to _god—”_  
  
“I didn’t.” And Jason is legitimately planning to pull the trigger until: “Tim did.”  
  
Jason pauses. Another breathless cackle rings through the cave, making them all wince. “What. _The fuck. _Happened.”

* * *

“You’ve lost, Batman. Robin is mine. The last sound you hear will be our laughter.”

_ Bruce. _

It was the most hilarious everything he’d ever seen.

_ Make it stop, Bruce. _

“Here you go, sonny-boy!”  
  
A gun dropped into JJ’s (Tim’s?) hands.  
  
“Make Daddy proud. Deliver the punchline.”

_ Make it stop. _

JJ laughed and laughed, taking aim.

Ha.

Ha.

BAM!

The blood gurgling in Joker’s throat was the funniest nothing JJ had ever heard.

* * *

  
  
“Jesus Christ,” Jason breathes. And he thought the _ crowbar _ was fucked up.  
  
Bruce nods. “We still don’t know the extent of the physical damage, let alone the psychological trauma.”  
  
Jason hasn’t lowered the gun yet. Bruce doesn’t seem to care much, and Jason tells himself it’s because he knows he’s in the wrong.

_ He knows you won’t do it. _

Which isn’t true. Jason could if he wanted to. But he’s self-aware enough to know that just having the weapon up, putting distance between himself and Bruce, is enough to make Jason feel a fraction more settled in his skin.

_ Normal people don’t use assault weapons as teddy bears. _

_ Normal people don’t wear a fucking fursuit and crack skulls every night. This family is an exception to every rule in the book. _  
  
“How could you let this happen?” Jason snaps. “That kid _ trusted you. _ He would have died for you in a heartbeat if you asked him to, and you let him get snatched by the goddamn _ Joker?” _  
  
“It wasn’t—”  
  
“He never should have been Robin in the first place! How many more kids need to be destroyed before you get that through your skull? Did you _ honestly _ think you could bring in a new Robin and expect a different fucking outcome the second time around?”  
  
The Robin suit is cursed—a target at best and a death sentence at worst. Every time a new one joins the ranks, the risk escalates until eventually everyone falls, and the cave’s glass cases become glass coffins. Dick escaped it, (which is still debatable), but the curse took Jason. It took Tim.  
  
And, honestly? Jason doesn’t know who has it better. Being killed by Joker was awful, but this…  
  
Bruce tries to speak, but he’s cut off by Dick gasping. “Tim, no!”  
  
Jason whips around. Apparently Dick went to get something from the med cart, and as soon as his back was turned Tim grabbed a pair of medical scissors from the tray beside his bed. He’s got his fist closed around the handle and raises it to his wrist, giggling.  
  
_ “Shit,” _ Jason hisses.  
  
Tim brings the blades down, and Dick lunges to grab him. There’s blood already soaking through Tim’s sleeve, but he doesn’t seem to care. He fights Dick off, laughing that goddamn _ laugh _ all the while.  
  
“Tim, stop—it’s _ okay,” _ Dick grunts, trying to wrestle the scissors away before Tim can do more damage. He earns a slice to the cheek for that, but he doesn’t let go. Tim is screaming, laughing, _ fighting. _ _  
_  
Jason can hardly believe what he’s seeing this right now. His replacement—_Tim_—the little shit who worships the ground that Bruce and Dick walk on, who can do no wrong in the eyes of anyone who’s ever met him, who is so deeply _ good _ that it makes Jason nauseated sometimes. The Robin who _ lived. _  
  
To see that person become this... _ thing? _ It’s inconceivable.  
  
And Jason wants more than anything to pull the trigger on Bruce; or at the very least, shatter his jaw with the barrel. But Tim isn’t okay. He’s not okay, and that takes priority over everything else.  
  
So, biting back a growl, Jason holsters the pistol and runs to help Dick strap Tim down to the cot.

* * *

The electricity hurts.  
  
It zaps and cracks and burns and sizzles through Tim’s body like a million bazillion bumblebees.  
  
Someone is screaming.  
  
Tim thinks it might be him.  
  
“Let’s try this again,” Daddy says, turning off the machine.

Tim slumps back down on the table he’s strapped to, shuddering. His breaths come out as giggles.  
  
Daddy—(_Joker, _this is _Joker _and he’s _bad)_—leans in close so Tim can see the yellow of his teeth. “Are you going to be a good boy and tell the truth?”  
  
JJ chokes on laughter, tears streaking down his temples. “H-Hurts. Make it—make it stop.” He gasps out another laugh, his body twitching and aching.  
  
“I’ll make it stop if you tell me about the first Boy Wonder.”  
  
“D-Dick black—white—_Grayson,” _JJ gasps. “He’s—He likes cereal and hugs and—and his parents went splat, they went splat and the world went splat and everything went splat.”

He hiccups. “Nightwing goes splat. Batman goes splat—splat—splat—”  
  
Joker pulls back, satisfied. “There. Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?”  
  
He pulls down the lever and laughs when JJ screams, arching off the table.

_ He lied. _   
  
_ Daddy lied to us. _

JJ doesn’t like liars. 

* * *

They have to sedate him. It makes Jason feel like an absolute traitor, but after that stunt with the scissors, it’s clear that Tim is too unstable right now to be loose. The kid already wiggled out of his restraints twice, and now Cass has a black eye to show for it.  
  
As it turns out, a bat who’s also batshit crazy is a dangerous combination. Who would have thought, right? None of them feel good about it, but once the kid’s knocked out they’re all relieved to be spared from the horrible laughter. That was creepy as hell.  
  
From what the tox screens tell them, Joker pumped Tim full of a twisted cocktail of poisons and gases, bringing the insanity to a level on par with his own. Tim is a threat to himself _ and _ others right now, Bruce explains, so it’s in everyone’s best interest to keep him out while the Joker toxin works its way out of his system.  
  
“And then what?” Dick asks. “Is he going to be okay?”  
  
Bruce just stares down at Tim solemnly for a moment before stalking away toward the manor—off to either weep into a stuffed unicorn or change into civvies. Probably the former.  
  
Dick hasn’t left Tim’s side in the entire time Jason’s seen him, and Jay isn’t planning on it either. Dick clutches one of Tim’s still-strapped-down hands in his own while Jason merely stands off to the side; a silent watcher.  
  
Cass and Damian left for upstairs an hour ago. When they took off Tim’s shirt to see the extent of his injuries, it exposed as many electrical burns as Arkham has crazies. That was when Damian finally excused himself upstairs to vomit, and Cass burst into tears and ran after him.  
  
Jason stays. He owes Tim at least that, given how rotten he feels right now. Because, as awful as he know it sounds, a part of him _ envies _ Tim. Isn’t that terrible? Him, Jason Todd. Envious of a seventeen-year-old kid who’s been tortured and brainwashed to the brink of insanity.  
  
Is Jason a bad person for thinking it?

_ Were you ever good to begin with? _

Which...all right, that’s fair.  
  
Jason doesn’t know if it’s another side effect of the pit madness, or if he’s truly the worst brother to ever exist. Because after all Tim has been through in the past three weeks, Jason _ still _ can’t stop fixating on the Joker. On Tim _ killing _ the Joker.  
  
Since he came back to life, all Jason has wanted to do was kill the Joker. It was the spiteful fire to his furnace; the thing pushing him to keep going, no matter what. He needed to put that damn clown in the ground, just like he did to him.  
  
And then, after years of Jason using Joker as his crutch to maintain that same furnace in the pit of his soul, Tim goes and kills him. Just like that. That monster murders Jason—a _ child_—and gets off scot free, but he kidnaps Tim for a few weeks and gets a metal spear through the chest for it.  
  
And Jason _ knows _ he shouldn’t be thinking this way. It’s completely unfair to be jealous of Tim right now, and even worse to resent him for it.  
  
So maybe this means Jason is a monster too. Maybe it’s the Lazarus Pit. Maybe it’s a mixture of everything that’s happened, finally getting to him. But the guilt is what keeps Jason’s boots stapled to the floor, refusing to leave Tim no matter how much he wants to bolt.

_ As if that makes it better. _

By the time Bruce returns, Dick has passed out with his head resting on the edge of Tim’s bed. His neck's going to ache when he wakes up, but no one makes him move.  
  
“How is he?” Bruce whispers, inclining his head towards Tim.  
  
“Batshit insane, but still out.” Bruce nods, resting a hand on Dick’s head. “What do you think’s going to happen when he wakes up?” Jason asks.

_ Do you really want to know the answer to that? _

“Honestly?” Bruce says. “I have no idea. He might wake up tomorrow and be completely lucid. He might not. The trauma might have broken something too deep for us to reach, or it might be manageable. There’s no way of knowing until then.”  
  
Jason’s arms are crossed, body taut as a wire. He doesn’t take his eyes off of Tim’s pale, sleeping face. “I’m not sorry,” he says. “For threatening you earlier. Hell, I might do it again depending on how screwed-up Tim is when he wakes up.”  
  
Bruce looks ashamed. As he should be. “I know.”  
  
“And I think you’re an asshole,” Jason continues. “I think you're a self-righteous asshole who doesn’t know when to quit, and you fucked up _ enormously _ bad this time. But…” A deep breath. “But the kid needs you right now. And that’s enough for me to cease fire.”

* * *

Tim is dead. He knows he is.  
  
His brain is fuzzy— _ fuzzy, fuzzy, fuzzy _ —and it itches and tickles and tingles like it’s crawling with a hundred misty spiders.

_ “Such a brilliant mind—so ordered, so rigid.” _

“Tim? Hey, bud, you awake?”

_ “Imagine what it could do if it was as free as my own?” _

“Come on, Tim. Can you at least open your eyes?”  
  
Dick.  
  
Dick can’t be here. He’s not supposed to be dead.  
  
“I promise this is real,” Not-Dick says. “You’re okay. You’re not there anymore.”

_ You don’t know that. _

It’s not real. Tim is dead. Joker is dead. Only JJ is left—leftover silt from a flood.  
  
“Jesus Christ,” a new voice says. (Jason? What’s Jason doing in his hallucination?) “At least make him quit it with the giggling.”  
  
He’s giggling? When did that start?  
  
“Don’t be mean,” Dick chides. Something warm grips Tim’s hand, and from the shock alone of a kind touch he opens his eyes.  
  
Dick is beside him, except it’s not Dick. It can’t be Dick, because Bruce would never let Joker have him. Or Jason. Bruce wouldn’t want to lose Jason again.

_ “The last Boy Wonder came back after I finished him off. But don’t worry, son, I won’t make the same mistake twice.” _

And Tim laughs. He tries not to—knows he shouldn’t, but he laughs. And the way Dick and Jason flinch only spurs him on even more.  
  
“What’s so funny?” Jason demands. He’s gripping his biceps, digging his fingers in like he’s tethering himself back to reality. Tim’s fault.  
  
Tim’s head lolls and he looks up at the ceiling—at the way it swirls above him, hypnotic. “You’re—_hic_—you’re not dead,” he giggles. “And I’m dead now.”  
  
Dick makes a choked sound and tightens his fingers around Tim’s. “You’re not dead, Tim. You’re home, remember? We got you back.”

_ You don’t understand. You can’t see it. _

Tim manages to quell the tremors rumbling in his throat; rattling through his chest. And he sets his gaze on Dick, gleeful. “I’m dead,” he says, shaking his head with a grin. “I’m dead.”  
  
It’s so _ funny. _Everything is funny.

A tear tracks its way down his cheek, but he can’t tell if it’s a sad tear or if it’s because he’s laughing so hard his ribs ache.

Dick swipes away the wetness with his thumb, and only then does Tim realize he can’t move his own limbs.

_ They had to restrain us. _ _  
_ _  
_ _ We’re too dangerous like this. _

It’s hilarious. It’s _ all _ hilarious, so Tim laughs.

* * *

Tim’s doing...not _well, _exactly. But he’s doing _better, _and Jason has gotten used to believing that can be enough, for now.  
  
Sure, someone needs to constantly keep an eye on the guy so he doesn’t hurt himself, but at least he falls into random bouts of panicked laughter slightly less often these days. That counts as an improvement, right?  
  
At first Jason tries keeping his distance. After all, he and Tim don’t have a great track record when it comes to friendly interactions. He can count on one hand the number of times he’s tried to kill Tim in the past, and the fact that he can tick off one finger at _all_ is a red flag that maybe Tim’s been through enough trauma. He doesn’t need Jason hanging around and making things worse.  
  
For the first week, problems are to be expected. Tim has just been tortured and brainwashed for three weeks straight—no one expects him to get better right away. And it’s not like he’s _completely _insane.  
  
From what they can tell, Tim has mostly caught up with reality. It’s annoying having to remind him that he’s not with _him _anymore, that this isn’t a dream, but he’s not completely lost. He’s still the old Tim. Just...if the old Tim had hallucinations and frequent panic attacks that involved laughing like a deranged maniac.  
  
Which he does.  
  
A lot.  
  
Every time the kid laughs, Jay has to dig his nails into his leg until the skin is raw, just to keep himself from falling headfirst into a flashback. He doubts he’ll ever be used to it.  
  
Dick takes to sleeping in Tim’s room at night, as it quickly becomes apparent that the poor guy can’t escape the trauma of what happened to him even when asleep. He wakes up screaming half a dozen times a night on average, and someone needs to be there to hold him back when he freaks out. Like some fucking thriller movie.  
  
Some days are good. Some days Tim is talking like normal and able to go more than a few hours without spitting up giggles—a garish accomplishment at this rate. On days when Tim is lucid, it’s like the tension bleeds out of the walls, and the entire house releases its breath.  
  
It shows that Tim’s condition isn’t forever. That with time and healing, he _will _recover from this.  
  
Other days, it’s like taking ten steps back for every two forward.  
  
The days when Tim can hardly keep up with a regular conversation; too trapped in his own mind, reliving images no person should have to live through in the first place. Days in which the slightest nudge can set him off. A black eye for Damian here, a scratch on Bruce’s throat from Tim’s fingernails there.  
  
From what Bruce explained, Tim’s mind has been fractured. He often checks out altogether as a defense mechanism, but with time he’ll get better until the lapses of sanity stop altogether.  
  
The weird part about it is that Tim’s lucid days start happening more often on ones in which Jason visits. Which...Jason doesn’t entirely know what to do with. Because it’s not like he and Tim were ever close. They didn’t _hate _each other, but it’s no secret that Tim’s strongest relationship has always been with Grayson.  
  
And yet, when Jason’s around, Tim grows inexplicably calmer. The episodes come less frequently. There’s more focus in Tim’s eyes, as if having Jason nearby somehow gives him the ability to sift between reality and what the voices in his head tell him is real.  
  
“Why _me?” _Jason asks Alfred one day. “I’ve never even sent the guy a birthday card.”  
  
Alfred shrugs. “Does it matter? So long as Master Timothy is getting better, I should think it’s in our best interest to keep that going.”  
  
The next day, Jason moves back into the manor. Bruce looks like he just opened a box of puppies for Christmas.  
  
In addition to the being totally wacked-out part, Tim’s still dealing with the physical side effects of his time with Joker. Aside from the art gallery of scars, it looks like Joker starved Tim during his captivity as well. Because he’s an asshole.

_ Was. _ _  
_ _  
_ _ He _ was _ an asshole. _

Tim couldn’t keep any food down the first few days, which made things difficult. He’s even lighter than _ Damian _ now, which says a lot considering how the brat barely reaches Jason’s pecs. They just recently got Tim back to solid food after a full week of broth and IVs.  
  
And now, for whatever wackjob reason, Jason is the only one capable of goading Tim into eating. Bruce thinks it’s because Tim has major trust issues now (which—yeah, that’s fair) and Jason’s the only one around here whom he trusts.  
  
Jason didn’t sign up for this shit, but there’s no way he’s going to abandon the kid _ now_—when he’s hanging on to himself by a thread. So Jay sticks around. He hangs out with Tim, occasionally keeps him from snapping and shoving a screwdriver through his eye socket. Normal brother things.  
  
One day Dick asks how Jason won Tim over so easily, and Jason never thought he’d ever get Goldie jealous of him for something. He wishes he could get physical documentation of this moment.  
  
But he understands why Dick feels betrayed. For the past few years, it’s been Drake and Grayson against the world; the dynamic sibling duo, armed with a camaraderie capable of making normal people puke at the drop of a hat.  
  
“I don’t get it,” Dick says, on the verge of pouting. “How can Tim trust you, but not me?”  
  
“Fuck if I know,” Jason says.  
  
But he does know. It’s because Jason doesn’t sugarcoat things like the others do.  
  
_ “You’re gonna be okay, Tim.” _

_ “Joker can’t hurt you anymore.” _

_ “I’m not afraid of you.” _

No wonder the kid doesn’t trust the others—they’re spouting lies at him constantly. And like, come _ on_. The kid’s crazy, not stupid. Jason’s not going to kick Tim while he’s already down by treating him like being subjected to a Jokerized seasoning of trauma means he needs to be handled with kid gloves.  
  
So he doesn’t shy away from the topic like the others do.  
  
Tim’s first smile—first real, _ genuine _ smile since the Joker’s death—happens on a Sunday morning. Tim and Jason are watching an action movie after ruling out sitcoms right away because the laugh tracks make Tim jittery.  
  
“Can’t you watch something with fewer decapitations?” Bruce asks when he passes through, eyeing Tim warily but trying to seem like he’s not. (He’s failing.)  
  
Tim doesn’t answer. Getting him to talk these days takes an enormous amount of effort. Ironic because before, the real trick was getting him to shut up.  
  
Jason shrugs, eyes on the screen. “Why? Not like we haven’t both killed people before. We know the drill.”  
  
Bruce’s face turns comically shocked at the brusqueness, but the true sight is Tim. Tim, who actually _ smiles _ at the jab_. _ It’s as close to laughing as he’ll let himself get, even if it’s barely more than a twinge of the lips.  
  
But it counts.  
  
And later, when Bruce confronts Jason for a lesson on subtlety, Jason replies, “What’s the point of pretending all that shit never happened? Tim’s fucked up, and that’s not gonna go away easily. The least we can do is not treat him like porcelain for it.”

* * *

There’s nothing to be done about the scars.  
  
Tim keeps them hidden beneath bandages for the first few weeks, because not seeing them is enough to let him forget it happened. Mostly.  
  
Then the night comes when he finally works up the nerve to take the bandages off in front of the mirror above his bathroom sink.

The scars are healed—the scabs gone. Two grotesque lines serrate his flesh, locking him in a perpetual smile no matter how deeply he frowns.  
  
Surprisingly, Tim doesn’t laugh when he sees them. He doesn’t cry.  
  
He simply plunges his fist through the glass, shattering the mirror into a hundred cracks spider-webbing from the crater.

When he pulls his hand away, blood drips from Tim’s knuckles and stains the rug.

_ Crazy, crazy, crazy. _

He ends up going to Jason’s room, knocking with his sliced-up hand because who cares? He can’t feel it anyway. Senses are too dulled after all of the drugs _ he _ pumped him with.  
  
Jason doesn’t say anything; just sighs when he sees the trail of blood bisecting a path through his bedroom. Tim almost _ wants _ him to say something. Tell him that this is the last straw. He can’t deal with this anymore. Maybe Arkham will do better.  
  
But he merely sits Tim on his bed and digs out his medical kit, stitching Tim’s carved-up hands.

_ How many more scars until there’s nothing of you left? _

“The scars won’t go away,” Tim says when the silence becomes too loud.  
  
Somehow Jason knows he’s not talking about his hands. “No, they won’t.”

_ You’re not worth lying to. _

“It’s going to freak people out when I start going outside again.” The _ when _ is deliberate. Until now it’s always been _ if. _ Is this progress, or foolish hope?

_ Foolish. _

“They’ll get over it,” Jason says. “Trust me, you’re not the most bizarre person in Gotham. Hell, in this _ family. _ We’re all freaks around here.”  
  
Tim considers that. And allows himself a flicker of a smile. “No bullshit?” he checks.  
  
“No bullshit.” 

* * *

  
  
They work out a balance. Noting what’s okay and what isn’t. Getting him back into a routine. Letting him help out on old cases, sifting through files for as long as he wants. Reminding him of who he _ is, _ buried underneath the layers of trauma and laughter.  
  
Tim doesn’t talk about what happened to him, and they all know better than to ask. They’ve got a grocery list of triggers to watch out for. Saying the word “Joker,” most of all, is off limits. Refer to the monster as anything but _ him _ and it’s impossible to predict how Tim will react.  
  
At least he’s not dangerous to anyone but himself most of the time, so long as you don’t push him too hard. He might punch Damian once or twice; might throw a mug at your head if you’re not careful. But it could be so much worse.  
  
The most he divulges about what he went through is during a game of Scrabble with Jason and Dick. Kid wipes the floor with them, of course. Even crazy, he’s an undeniable genius.  
  
“What the fuck is a wharncliffe?” Jason asks when Tim puts it down. “Stop making up words to sound smart.”  
  
Tim takes five tiles from the bag, arranging them on the row calmly. “Knife. He stabbed me sixteen times with it.”  
  
Neither Dick nor Jason knows what to say to that.  
  
So, after a tense moment, Jason puts down a “rat” and the game goes on.

* * *

_ He tried to kill you. _

_ You can’t trust him. _

_ He thinks you’re dangerous. _

_ Kill him before he kills you first. _

_ They’re all afraid of you. _

“Can't imagine why,” Tim mutters aloud.  
  
He finally got permission to use his laptop again—with supervision, of course. But the lick of freedom is seriously dampened by the fact that it’s impossible to focus with voices screaming at him day in, day out.  
  
Jason looks over at him oddly from his spot on the opposite sofa. Still not used to hearing Tim talk to himself, he guesses. “All good?”

_ Have you ever been? _

“Yeah. Just...you know. Voices.”  
  
“Huh.” Jason pauses, contemplative. “That sucks.”  
  
“Yup.”  
  
“So...who’s in _ your _ head?”  
  
“Me. Not me. Some in between.” Tim shrugs. “What about you?”  
  
Jason sighs. “In between.”

* * *

Once Tim fully adjusts to being home again, some new...habits come to light.  
  
It starts when Damian marches into the kitchen one morning and slams a maybe-DS on the breakfast table, making everyone jump. The “maybe” is because Jason can’t be sure it even _ is _ a DS.  
  
The thing is a mess of wires and plastic, taken apart piece by piece and carelessly bundled back together like a sad middle school science fair project.  
  
“Who did this?” Damian demands, face flushed with rage.  
  
Tim cocks his head to the side, idly curious. He’s in the process of cutting his bowl of cubed fruit into as many tiny portions as possible with a spoon. He hasn’t worked his way back to knives yet. “Oh. Yeah, I’m like...ninety-percent sure that was me.”  
  
Damian lunges across the table, but Bruce wraps an arm around the demon’s waist and holds him back. Tim doesn’t flinch. “Jeez, sorry,” he says. “I’ll buy you a new one.” But his eyes dance with amusement.  
  
“I swear to _ god, _ Drake—” Damian growls, but before he can finish his threat Bruce is scooping him up and throwing him over his shoulder.  
  
“Come on, son,” he says, abandoning his breakfast. “Take a minute to cool down, _ then _ we’ll discuss it.”  
  
Tim snorts, focus already returned to his fruit. If Jason didn’t know any better, he’d think Tim were almost _ smug _ about being caught. Jason gives him the ol’ side-eye, but says nothing.  
  
So the kid’s got a new hobby. Fine. He’s seen worse.  
  
The next day, however, Jason walks into his room only to find that his cell phone (which he’d left securely on top of his nightstand to charge) has been taken apart. All the little chips and bits inside are exposed and scattered about the carpet.  
  
And while it’s true bat-training made it so that he backed everything up thrice over and it’ll take minimal effort to transfer the data into a new phone, courtesy of Bruce’s credit card, he’s still understandably peeved.  
  
The little shit even broke his custom-made Arsenal phone case.  
  
Jason finds Tim lounging in his own room and dumps the intestines of his phone in his lap. “Care to explain?”  
  
Tim takes one look at the phone pieces. “Not particularly.”  
  
Jason mentally screams into a pillow. “Then can you at least _ ask _ before taking apart someone else’s personal shit? If we weren’t rich you’d be in a casket by now.”  
  
Tim waves his fingers, a clear dismissal. “Fine.”  
  
And it does get better, somewhat. At least he has the common courtesy to _ ask _ now before breaking stuff—unraveling tapes, ripping books to shreds, picking out the threads of a scarf until it’s been reduced to a pile of yarn.  
  
It befuddles everyone. Tim doesn’t break his own belongings, nor does he care about things like puzzles or helping Alfred mash potatoes for dinner—things that are _ supposed _ to be broken. As if he’s trying to funnel destruction into some kind of silent code no one else can decipher.  
  
Jason thinks he understands, but he doesn’t ask Tim.

_ Because you’re ashamed. _

Because he gets it. He _ hates _ that he gets it.  
  
When Jason came back to life, the thing he wanted most of all in the world—more than revenge on the Joker, more than making Bruce pay, more than going right back into a coffin—was to regain what he lost. To be back with his family, loved and safe.  
  
But he knew that wasn’t possible. Not after being replaced so soon, as if he was merely a placeholder from the start. And so he made sure to sever every bond he had to ensure he wouldn’t be riddled with those quick flickers of hope he got every time he saw a black cowl and yellow cape.  
  
So of _ course _ Jason understands. Like knows like.  
  
Tim was tortured for three weeks straight; had grown accustomed to pain day in, day out. It’s no wonder he’s having a hard time feeling safe now, because when is the other shoe going to drop? When will he wake up from the daydream and fall right back into the nightmare?  
  
He might not even be aware he’s doing all this on purpose. Jason sure wasn’t. And Jason succeeded in his mission to make the family hate him, but he’ll be _ damned _ if he lets Tim follow in his footsteps. 

_ Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t. _

And he tells the others as much. “Whatever he breaks, don’t get mad at him. He’s acting out because he’s not being hurt like he expects, so he’s trying to trigger it himself rather than wait around. Just be patient and he’ll get with the program eventually, got it?”  
  
The next day, Dick “subtly” nudges a box of old cassettes in Tim’s direction, and the kid busies himself for hours with absently unraveling the ribbon until he’s surrounded by the corpses of a dozen cassette tapes.  
  
But he does gradually tone it down with the destruction of personal possessions, once he realizes that the repercussions he’s expecting won’t come. The others congratulate Jason on his intuned thinking, even if he’s the only one who knows how much he doesn’t deserve it.  
  
Because Jason knows what it’s like to have your sanity ripped from you, replaced with voices in your head that sound like you but aren’t your own. Voices that drive you to do unspeakable things, horror after horror to the point where your own _ family _ won’t accept you anymore because you’re not the person they used to love, so why should they love you now?

_ Maybe the replacement and I have more in common than I thought. _

* * *

Only when the mirror thing starts does Jason consider maybe he should start keeping a list of Tim’s new tics. God knows it would make things easier.  
  
Jason goes into the bathroom one morning, only to find that the mirror above the sink has been graffitied frame to frame in numbers, written in thick, black Sharpie. They’re not any code Jason recognizes, nor are they a mathematical formula.  
  
The only other symbols he can decipher are some shapes between every dozen digits or so, things like triangles and stars with the occasional squiggly line.  
  
Jason sighs. It’s too early for this.  
  
Further investigation proves that every other mirror in the household aside from those in individual bedrooms and the ground floor bathrooms has been scribbled on as well. Either the kid inherited Damian’s knack for art, or this is another fun annoyance the rest of them are going to have to learn to live with.  
  
“You mind explaining the...artwork?” he asks as he enters the living room. Damian is on the floor sketching a sleeping Titus, while Tim sits on the couch above him tinkering with one of Bruce’s old grapples.   
  
Tim shrugs. “Not sure.”  
  
“What do you mean you’re not sure?”  
  
“I don’t know why I did it, if that’s what you’re asking. I just...did it.” Because that’s perfectly normal.  
  
Jason collapses on the couch beside him with a heavy exhale. “You’re not making any of this easy, kid, you know that?”  
  
Tim rolls his eyes. “Try being me. Insanity is _ exhausting.” _  
  
Jason understands more than he should. “Do the numbers even mean anything?”  
  
“Don’t think so. I don’t know how the craziness works, I just do what it tells me.”  
  
“Oh.” He shares a glance with Damian, who looks as mystified as Jason feels. “That’s...pretty fucking weird.”  
  
Tim snorts. “You have no idea.”

* * *

Tim never describes the hallucinations, but it doesn’t take a boy genius to figure out that they torment him constantly. Every time he gets that faraway look, that fearful crinkle in his forehead, they all know it’s time to distract him. Keep the monsters at bay as well as they can.  
  
It’s gotten to the point where every time Tim enters a room or someone comes to talk to him, he needs to double check. “Real?” he’ll ask. Because he’s too untrusting to risk being fooled by an illusion.  
  
Once Jason asks him how he can tell the difference between his family members reassuring him they’re real and a hallucination doing the same thing.  
  
And Tim gets this strange expression on his face. Distant. Bitter. “Because when I ask them, they just laugh.”

* * *

It’s easy to tell that Tim is going stir-crazy the longer his recovery goes on. Aside from the weekly therapy appointments and occasional psychotic episode putting a saucy spin on an otherwise average day, there’s really not much for Tim to do.  
  
Bruce hasn’t mentioned anything yet about when Tim will be allowed back in the cape and mask again, but it can’t be anytime soon. Not when he’s still hanging onto his sanity by a thread. And that’s on _ good _ days.  
  
It’s not easy, coming up with things to keep Tim busy. Even back when he was clinically sane, Tim always fell too easily into depressive spirals when under-stimulated for too long. Toss in the fact that every last one of his marbles has flown the coop, the necessity of busy work is all the more prevalent.  
  
So he picks through the manor, organizing whatever isn’t up to his standards. He’ll rearrange Cass’ sock drawer alphabetically by color. Empty every cupboard in the kitchen and put the dishes back categorized by shape—cups with bowls and mugs with pots.  
  
Sometimes Jason will kindly trash the shelf of DVDs in the living room just so Tim can put them all back. But unfortunately, coming up with new stuff to keep Tim occupied is draining Jason’s energy to a puddle.  
  
Who knew looking after your psychotic brother can get so tiresome? Now Jason’s finally starting to understand why Arkham security is such shit; the guards there must be _ exhausted. _  
  
He leaves Tim with Alfred one afternoon and takes a nap in the den, if only the buy back all the energy he lost from the previous night’s patrol, paired with constantly looking after Tim. He’s seriously lacking in the sleep department.  
  
By the time he wakes up, the sun has set fully over the horizon. And, finally well-rested, Jason goes off to take his shift with Tim again, except:  
  
“I believe Master Timothy went to read in Bruce’s study.”  
  
Except he’s not there either. Which is just _ super fucking awesome. _ Because losing track of a teenager who once sliced his jugular on a whim is _ totally _ not a big deal at all.  
  
Jason rushes down the hallway, checking each room for any sign of Tim. _Nada._ Not a trace. He does find Dick in the gym, though, which is a small step up.  
  
“Dickface, you seen Tim?” Jason asks from the doorway.  
  
Dick’s brows are knitted as he holds a handstand. “I think he’s rearranging the pantry? That’s where I saw him.”  
  
“Already checked. He’s not there, and Alfred doesn’t know where he is either.”  
  
That gets Dick’s attention. He lets himself flop forward and rolls into a kneeling position. “That’s...not good.”  
  
“You think?”  
  
Together they go off in search, poking heads in every room and closet as they pass down the halls. And Jason pretends his undead heart isn’t beating at fifty miles an hour.  
  
Eventually they stumble upon Tim in one of the manor’s many extra rooms, all the furniture covered with dusty white sheets. It makes it easier to spot the small figure huddled in the corner, knees pulled close to his chest and hands clamped over his ears.  
  
“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” he’s muttering quietly, eyes scrunched closed. “Shut _ up_—you’re not real. You’re not real.”  
  
“Damn it,” Jason hisses. He and Dick run over to help, but Tim hardly notices when they get close. Merely ducks his head lower, trying to make himself as small as possible. It’s impossible to know what he’s seeing, but based on how pale he is it _ can’t _ be anything good.  
  
Dick falls to his knees beside Tim. “Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he murmurs, prying Tim’s hands from his head. Blood is caked under his fingernails, sticking in his hair.  
  
Jason crouches, tries to catch Tim’s skipping gaze. “Kid, you with me?”  
  
Tim doesn’t give any indication he can hear him, which is a bad sign. His eyes lock on something over Jason’s left shoulder; some hallucination in the rotation that follows him daily but only tends to lash out during episodes like this.  
  
Jason moves so he’s blocking whatever it is, but that does next to nothing. Tim is already breathing hard, hiccups and giggles slipping through as he shudders. Dick’s got a firm grip on his wrists, keeping them pinned to Tim’s chest so he can’t do any damage he’ll regret later.  
  
“It’s okay,” Dick soothes, to little effect. “It’s not real.”  
  
But they both know well enough that there’s nothing they can do when Tim gets like this. Only keep him restrained and wait it out for as long as the episode lasts.

_ If you can’t help him, how are you ever going to help yourself? _

Sometimes it sucks being powerless.

* * *

The next day, Tim and Jason are in the sitting room.  
  
Jason’s attempting to nap on the couch, while Tim is perched on the armrest nearest to his brother’s feet. Jason takes whatever sleep he can get now that he’s on nightwatch duty, which Tim can't help feeling guilty about.  
  
What with Tim waking up four, five times a night from unrelenting nightmares, Jason convinced Dick to let him alternate shifts with him after Dick nearly fell asleep in a bowl of oatmeal.

_ Your fault, _a voice suspiciously like Joker’s whispers.

Tim giggles. He’s on his laptop, hacking through one of the programs Barbara sent him to play around with.  
  
“What?” Jason asks. He’s got one arm thrown over his eyes.  
  
Another giggle. “I’ve got ghosts in my head.”  
  
Jason lifts his arm and stares at Tim, stupefied. Then he sighs, closing his eyes again.  
  
“Me too, kid.”

* * *

Tim sneaks into Jason’s bedroom and prods him on the shoulder. “I want to go outside.” And, sure, it’s supposed to be Dick’s night to look after him, but whatever. Jason resigned himself to chief babysitter a long time ago.  
  
So he just nods and lets Tim lead him up to the roof, yawning and wincing when the cold air nips his bare toes. This is the most Tim is willing to go outside thus far. He’s afraid of being stared at—or worse: having an episode right in the middle of Walmart.  
  
But nights on the roof, when moonlight shines through Gotham’s smoggy sky and the air is damp with an incoming storm? Tim soaks it up like a sponge. He and Jason sit side-by-side, Jason lighting a cigarette and Tim staring out over Gotham City.  
  
They have a weird balance, the two of them, and it’s a chemical formula that would ordinarily explode and destroy the laboratory. But it hasn’t. Somewhere along the course of this tragic journey, Tim and Jason have reached a common ground.  
  
Jason hates it.  
  
He loathes himself for the fact that it took Tim going through some of the worst torture imaginable for them to finally relate to each other. Does that say more about Jason or Tim? That Tim needs to be turned into a brainwashed, insane version of himself for Jason to treat him like more than the twerp who replaced him.

_ It’s because you both have blood on your hands now. _

Which is probably true. Tim and Jason have crossed the line Bruce never deigns to touch. Damian was brought up killing, and now he’s curbed his appetite for murder. He’s a good guy now.  
  
But Jason kills. Tim killed. And neither of them regrets it.  
  
He notices Tim twitching out of the corner of his eye. Tim’s got his head turned a fraction, as if someone’s whispering in his ear. His mouth is set in a deep frown; lips tight like he’s in pain.  
  
“What’s he telling you?”  
  
Tim flinches at Jason’s voice, but settles quickly. “He wants me to throw myself off the roof.” A shrug.  
  
“Should I get ready to dive and grab you, or are you good?”  
  
“It’s...manageable.” And that’s good enough for Jason, he supposes.  
  
Tim looks up at the stars, thoughtful. “Will I ever stop hearing him?”  
  
There’s no point in lying to him. “No.”  
  
And Tim looks at him, confounded. So used to smooth edges that Jason’s jagged truths still take him by surprise, even now. “Oh. That...sucks.”  
  
“Yeah,” Jason says, taking a drag from his cigarette. “It does.”  
  
Jason didn’t make it. Tim did.  
  
But Jason thinks that maybe, just maybe, he was the lucky one.

**Author's Note:**

> For every comment I shall pet my roommate's fish because FISH DESERVE LOVE TOO, DAMMIT. 
> 
> ((Thanks for helping me with this Julie I LOVE YOU))
> 
> [Feel free to mosey on down to my Tumblr!](http://sohotthateveryonedied.tumblr.com/)


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